Speed Bumps
by felleny
Summary: While driving through Iowa, Spock gets carsick and Jim finds it pretty amusing.


There were plenty of things about Spock that Jim would never understand, from his fascination with the mating habits of local fauna to the way he calculated those percentages. But the one thing that perplexed Jim the most was how Spock could get carsick. Put the guy in the shakiest service tube on the Enterprise at warp speed and he was just fine, but put him in the passenger seat of a refurbished Ford and he fell apart. Or as close to falling apart as a Vulcan could fall.

So why Spock had agreed to accompany Jim to his grandmother's house was beyond him.

Jim glanced over at his partner, quirking his brows together. Spock sat rigid in his seat, one hand pressed against the dashboard and the other clutching tightly to the "Oh shit" handle beside his head. His pale cheeks were flushed Granny Smith green and they puffed out slightly with each controlled breath. His dark eyes, for the most part tensely shut, would open now and then, darting around the cab. Jim always managed to catch Spock's gaze at this point, offering the other a reassuring smile.

"How're we holding up over there?" he asked, reaching over and laying a hand on Spock's knee.

The Vulcan was faintly trembling, which he took to be a pretty bad sign.

"There's an 86.7% chance of vomiting," Spock's voice was tense and quiet.

Pulling his hand back, Jim hooked his thumb towards the backseat. "Y'wanna try laying down in the back?" He asked, checking the road to make sure he could pull over if necessary.

"Reclining in the rear seat increases the chances of vomiting by 3%," Spock slid his eyes shut once more, his hand slipping from the dashboard to rest over his stomach.

"I told you to take that damn hypo Bones offered before we beamed down," Jim flicked on his turning signal, merging quickly into the exit lane, causing Spock to let out a small, disgruntled noise.

"Jim, I must request you approach lanes at a slower speed." Swallowing heavily, Spock reopened his eyes, looking over at his mate. "And I have explained to you exactly seven times that it would not have worked. Vulcans are immune to the effects of Dramamine."

"Y'know, I still don't quite understand how you get carsick. I mean, we punch warp on a daily basis, Spock," Jim turned off of the exit much slower than he usually would, stealing a glance at his partner while they sat at a red light.

Spock's body visibly relaxed as the car sat, his eyes slowly opening and his tongue slipping out to wet his dry lips. "It is a concept I do not entirely understand, myself. My theory is that it is a combination of the movement and the scenery. In space, one avoids the rough terrain of traditional travel and the view is the same throughout. My body is simply unaccustomed to ground travel."

"I guess that makes sense," Jim shrugged, shaking his head a little. "It's still weird, though."

The light turned green and he headed down the suburban street. He glanced over at Spock, taking comfort in the fact that he was looking a little better, obviously preferring the slower pace of residential traffic. His body was a bit more relaxed, shoulders slouched slightly and his grip on his handle no longer white-knuckled. Smiling to himself, Jim allowed his hand to slip off the wheel and onto Spock's knee once more.

"Y'know, you didn't have to come to my Gran's with me," he said pointedly, turning down her street.

"I understand it was not a necessity," Spock spoke in a voice that said it certainly _was _necessary, looking over at Jim once more. "However, it is not only a Terran practice to meet one's future in-laws. She is your grandmother and when we are bonded, she will be my family as well. I came because I wanted to meet her."

Jim looked back over at Spock, the corner of his mouth curling into that amazed smirk only his partner could pull out of him. Winking quickly, he looked back at the road, turning with ease into his Gran's driveway.

She sat on her front porch, rocking back and forth in a wicker chair. Standing, the older woman approached the passenger side, ready to greet the odd mate her grandson had told her about.

What she got instead was a Vulcan whose vomit percentage has reached 100%, bent over and emptying his stomach onto her curbside.

"Oh, Jimmy," Gran leaned in and gave her grandson's cheek a kiss, running a hand over Spock's back. "He'll do just fine for you."


End file.
